bacchusnovels Chapter 568 A Letter to Malfoy
Chapter 568 A Letter to Malfoy
Chapter 564 A Letter to Malfoy
blank.
An endless blank space.
Narcissa stared silently at the ceiling, her eyes glazed over, unsure of what to say.
This is the third time she has argued with Lucius this week.
The reason for "three times" is not because it is Wednesday, but because she has only seen Lucius three times this week.
The root of the argument is naturally because—
Malfoy.
She couldn't understand why Lucius would still let their precious son accept this mission that seemed like a death sentence.
Did Lucius not know the danger involved?
still----
Thinking of the second possibility, Narcissa quietly clenched her fist.
Perhaps it wasn't that they didn't know, but rather that they had no choice but to do so in order to gain a foothold on the Black King's side.
The Dark Lord seems to be growing increasingly distant from Lucius.
What should I do?
Narcissa didn't know what she should do, but she knew she should.
After thinking for a moment, she picked up a piece of parchment and wrote a letter.
A letter to Malfoy.
After the herbalism class ended.
The three children parted ways, each with their own tasks: Ron had to prepare for the upcoming Quidditch match; Hermione had to go to the kitchen to continue researching drinks; and Harry had to stroll around the streets.
To be precise, Harry didn't know what he was supposed to do either.
It's not that there are too few things to do, but rather that there are too many, and I don't know where to start.
-
This also led to his encounter with Snape and Draco on campus.
The two seemed to be about to talk about something.
What shall we talk about?
When doubts arise, the solution naturally comes to mind.
Invisibility cloak.
Wearing an invisibility cloak is a very easy thing.
Because the corridors were empty, the difficulty was finding Snape and Malfoy.
Perhaps Snape took Malfoy to his dark underground office—or perhaps he was escorting him back to the Slytherin common room—
Harry went from door to door, pressing his ear against the door to listen.
As he peered through the keyhole of the last classroom at the end of the corridor, a sudden surge of joy filled him—he heard voices.
"—No more mistakes allowed, Draco. If you get fired—"
"That has nothing to do with me, understand?"
"I hope you're telling the truth. That behavior was both clumsy and foolish, and you've already aroused suspicion."
"Who suspects me?" Malfoy asked angrily. "I'll say it again, I didn't do it, understand? That girl named Katie must have messed with someone—don't look at me like that! I know what you're thinking, I'm not stupid, but it's no use—you can't stop me!"
After a moment of silence, Snape said in a low voice, "Hmm—Aunt Bellatrix taught you Occlumency. Are you trying to hide something, Draco? Hiding something from your master?"
"I didn't mean to hide it from him. I just—didn't want you to get involved."
Harry held his breath and pressed his ear even closer—why was Malfoy talking to Snape like that? He had always respected, even liked, Snape before—
"So you've been avoiding me this semester? You're afraid I'll interfere? You should understand, Draco, if it were anyone else, and they refused my summons so many times, I would have—"
"Solitary confinement? Reporting Phillips?" Malfoy interrupted him with a sneer.
There was another silence, then Snape said in a low voice, "You know I don't want to do that."
"Then you'd better not ask me to go to your office again."
"Listen," Snape whispered, Harry practically pressing his ear to the keyhole to hear, "I want to help you. Draco—your mother has come to me more than once."
Malfoy said coldly, "Because I don't need your help. This is the task he gave me, and I'm doing it. I have my own plan—it will succeed, it's just taking a little longer than expected."
"What's your plan?"
"It's none of your business!"
"If you tell me, I can help you."
"I have enough help now, thank you, I'm not alone!"
"Keep your voice down!" Snape warned. "Your friends Crabbe and Goyle will have to work even harder if they want to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts (OWL) exams—"
—
"So what if we fail? Defense Against the Dark Arts—this course itself is a joke, a farce, isn't it? Which of us actually needs to defend against dark magic?"
"This scene is crucial to your success, Draco!" Snape said seriously. "If I couldn't act, where do you think I'd be all these years? Listen to me! If you're counting on people like Crabbe and Goyle as your assistants—"
"I don't just rely on them! I have others—who are much better than them!"
"Why can't you tell me? I—"
"I know what you're thinking! You're trying to steal my credit!"
"————"
This information greatly surprised Harry.
Without any hesitation, he quietly left and went to Sean's office.
Upon seeing Harry's uninvited arrival, Sean, who was chatting with Riddle, suddenly stopped talking.
Riddle hasn't left yet—because of Slytherin.
Yesterday's memories reminded him of something, and Sean asked him to also sort out and move some of the artifacts left behind in the Chamber of Secrets from a few years ago.
"Harry, I want to..."
"I see, I see—"
Harry, breathless, relayed everything he had just seen to Sean.
Sean didn't seem as flustered as Harry.
In his words, "Hogwarts is under his control and is steadily improving."
But in order to make sure Harry didn't make a wasted trip, he still showed Harry the rest of the memories.
Harry approached the stone basin and obediently bent down.
Sean and Riddle followed closely behind.
Just one image was enough for Riddle to recall the events of that day.
to be honest-
What happened today is hard to forget.
What came into view was the Gaunt house, filthy and far dirtier than anywhere Harry had ever seen.
Thick spider webs hung from the ceiling, and the floor was pitch black.
The only light came from a nearly extinguished candle at the feet of a man.
The man, with his disheveled hair and thick beard obscuring his eyes and mouth, sat motionless in a dilapidated armchair by the fireplace, like a corpse.
He was awakened by a sudden, loud knocking on the door.
He jolted awake, gripping his wand in his right hand and a dagger in his left.
The door creaked open, and a boy stood in the doorway, holding an old-fashioned oil lamp.
Tall, with black hair, pale complexion, and handsome features.
The young Voldemort.
Voldemort's gaze slowly swept across the filthy room, finally settling on the man sitting in the chair.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, then the man staggered to his feet.
The wine bottles at his feet rolled and clattered all over the ground.
"You!" he roared, "You!"
He staggered toward Riddle, his wand and dagger raised high in his hands.
"stop."
"Riddle said in a low voice, like a parss."
The man couldn't stop in time and crashed into the table, causing the moldy iron pot to fall heavily to the ground.
He stared at Riddle, and a long silence fell between them.
What language do you speak?
"Yes, I will." Riddle walked into the room, and the door behind him closed.
That was really cool.
At least that's what Harry thought: he once again realized the gap between himself and the young Voldemort.
The life paths of successful people are predictable.
This success is not due to luck, but rather to an innate confidence.
Voldemort's expression was one of disgust, perhaps mixed with a hint of disappointment.
"Where is Mavolo?" he asked.
"Dead," the man replied, "dead for many years, hasn't he?"
Marvolo was Voldemort's grandfather.
Voldemort died in despair after his mother eloped with the Slytherin heirloom.
So much so that when he died, Mofen was still in prison.
Riddle frowned.
"Who are you?"
"I am Mofen, who else could I be?" the man muttered.
"Mavolo's son?"
“Of course,” Morfin said, reaching out to brush aside the messy hair that covered her dirty face, so she could see the boy in front of her clearly. “I thought you were that Muggle; you look so much like him.”
"Which Muggle?" Riddle demanded sharply.
“That Muggle my sister’s obsessed with—the one who lives in the big house across the street,” Morfin said, unexpectedly spitting on the ground. “You look exactly like him. Riddle. But he’s old now, isn’t he? He’s older than you, I remember—”
Mofen looked a little dazed, and swayed slightly, but still managed to grab the edge of the table for support.
"He came back, you know that."
Voldemort stared intently at him, his eyes sharp.
"Riddle came back?"
"Ah, he abandoned my sister—she deserved it, who told her to marry a good-for-nothing!" Morfin spat on the ground again, continuing indignantly, "She even stole our things before she ran away! Where's the locket? Where did Slytherin's locket go?"
Voldemort remained silent.
Mofen grew increasingly agitated, suddenly brandishing her dagger and roaring, "She's disgraced us all! That little slut! Who are you? Why are you asking these questions? It's all in the past, all in the past—"
He looked away, his body swayed, and his tone gradually lowered.
Voldemort stepped forward, about to ask another question, when a sudden darkness swept in, swallowing the oil lamp in Voldemort's hand and Morfin's candlelight, plunging everything into an endless void—
Sean gripped Harry's arm tightly, and the two were lifted into the air, flying away from the abyss of memories and back into reality.
"That's all?" Harry asked immediately. "Why did it suddenly go dark? What happened?"
"Because Morfin can't remember what happened after that." Seando gestured for Harry to sit down. "When he woke up the next day, he was lying alone on the floor, and Marvolo's ring—was gone."
"What happened after that?" Harry pressed.
Sean didn't say anything, but instead handed the whole matter back to the person involved.
Meanwhile, in Little Hangleton, a maid screamed and rushed into the street, claiming that there were three bodies in the living room of the mansion: old Tom Riddle and his parents.
"The Muggle authorities are helpless in this matter."
"As far as I know, they still don't know exactly how the Riddles died."
Riddle chuckled coldly and continued.
"But the Ministry of Magic immediately realized that this was the work of a wizard. They also knew that there was a man living across the street from the Riddles—a wizard who was consistently hostile to Muggles and had even been imprisoned for assaulting one of the victims."
"So the Ministry of Magic approached Morfin."
"They didn't question me much, nor did they use truth serum or legicidal techniques; Morfen confessed on the spot."
"He recounted details that only the killer could know, even proudly stating that he had waited many years to kill those Muggles. The wand he handed over was confirmed to be the murder weapon."
"Did Voldemort steal Morfin's wand and use it to kill people?" Harry asked.
"Not bad." Riddle nodded.
"Morfin never suspected that he did it?" Harry asked.
"Never. As I just said, he made a completely voluntary, even triumphant, confession."
"But he has retained that true memory?"
"Yes."
Riddle smiled calmly and continued.
"But that memory is hidden deep in the most secret corner of the mind, and only the most skilled Legilimency can extract it—Moffin has already confessed, so who would bother to search his memories?"
"Dumbledore."
Sean suddenly spoke, and what he said next made Riddle's face stiffen.
"As far as I know, he visited Moffin in prison during the last few weeks of his life, which is why this memory is being brought up here."
"Does this color look good?"
"nice."
Hermione glanced at the tea and liqueur Ginny had prepared and shook her head.
"But I guess it just looks nice; it definitely won't taste good."
Ginny, not believing it, poured a little of the drink onto her tongue.
The sour taste in her mouth immediately made her face scrunch up.
-
"Pah—pah—"
The house-elf on the other side of the kitchen was startled and dropped the silver spoon in its hand into the pot with a clatter.
He rushed over in a panic, his ears twitching.
"Miss Weasley, this is the kitchen, you—"
Ginny stuck out her tongue cutely, then quickly cleaned up the "drink" she had spat out with a cleansing spell.
The next attempt was not easy.
Compared to Hermione's well-thought-out pairing of brandy and oolong tea, Ginny's pairing was much more hasty.
It's as if she herself doesn't know what kind of tea or wine to choose, but just tries one after another, hoping that a fresh drink will be formed.
However, her focus was on color.
The stranger or more intense the color combinations, the more enthusiastic she became to try them.
Perhaps—she wanted to create a contrast?
For example, some foods may look unappetizing, but taste good. This creates a sense of surprise that "this thing is actually good," which psychologically enhances the effect of the drink.
How could that be?
Hermione didn't think so —